


Step for Two

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Contemporary/Ballet/Jazz styles mentioned/implied, Dancer! Dirk, Dave can Dance too, Dirk and Dave totally have mutual crushes on each other, It's kind of incest, M/M, Pas de deux, Solo, Sweet/Fluffy, They Dance Together, a few kisses, but it isn't graphic, just some kissing, not really anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Besides," you muttered, watching as Dave took off his shitty tennis shoes and hoisted himself up off of the floor. It takes him eight steps before he's able to take your left hand in his right, a simple resting touch that settled itself neatly into a nestled corner. Dave smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, the girl's shampoo and body wash he used from the beauty store down the street from the apartment complex you live in an easy scent to catch. "I know you can dance, too."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Otherwise known as, "Dirk is a talented dancer, and Dave is his brother. Dave stumbles upon Dirk practicing, and ends ups stepping in for a different choreographed piece; a pas de deux."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step for Two

**Author's Note:**

> I don't quite know what this is, but it turned into something, so I decided to make it a story.  
> Initially, it was supposed to be just a prompt for a roleplay I was doing with about five different people on MSPARP, but, I really enjoyed this idea and I was proud with my prompt (the first three paragraphs of this story), so I made it a story. :3 I thought it was short and sweet, and I didn't exactly go along with any of the roleplays on MSPARP, but it definitely did incorporate like, the first three or four replies of a few of them.  
> Shout out to those people who had roleplayed this prompt with me, you were all super great!  
> Alright, enjoy!

You would practice for hours. With or without the music, it wouldn't matter. You payed no mind to your form, your elegance or your technique. You just let the music flow through you, and you listened to it as it passed, even if it wasn't there in the first place. You had taken classes since you were young, and to say that you had potentially gotten good at it, would be an understatement. Dancing had easily become your life. You were enthralled and enamored by how those people on the telly could look so graceful, and put so much emotion into something, without saying anything. It seemed to be a no-brainer when you had asked for lessons when you and Dave were six, and had fallen in love. Ten years later, at the age of sixteen, you found yourself in the local gym, at the theatre area, where you always practiced. With the freedom available, you would walk after school immediately to the theatre in the gym to practice. You would keep your stereo in the trunk, and your phone and earbuds were always close at hand, in case someone else was in the gym area with you. 

But now, as you feel the thin sheen of sweat across your body, your tank top and leggings snug and fit appropriately, even after hours of practice, you still need to keep going. You love it, and the piece you had been practicing for hours, to the music in your head, was your favorite. Ever since your instructor had given you this solo, you had loved it. With a slow start on the floor, on your knees, you even your breathing out as you take a very short breather. You needs all of your concentration to be on the moves. The passion needed to be equal, the feeling needed to be intense. You were calm. In your head, the music started up, and you stared at the floor as you counted out the beats. One, two, three four, one... two... three... four... one, two, three- and you're off, transferring gracefully from your knees to a push off backwards with your left foot, and a casual, choreographed stumble along to the beat of the common, slow song. There, you would stop. As the beat picked up, though, so would you. The first leap was always the hardest, but then you would get the hang of it, the turns, spins, and moves... they were second nature. 

And you loved every minute of it.

As the music in your head, the beat of a nonexistent drum and the thrum of an invisible guitar splayed itself like a blanket over the background of your mind, you stopped with the end of the crescendo, the end of the peak. You had climbed the mountain, with the minor celebration being an intrigue of satisfaction from your half-way mark having been reached. Now, the journey downwards, as it all collected into a puddle, a pool with the lily-pads of which you would step to gather the decline to a slow halt. You would reach the end with goal in mind, your hands reaching out, and with one final leap, you would be out of the woods and into a soft, beautiful clearing. But you weren't there quite yet. A turn, and you were facing a wall, but that's how it's supposed to go, the corner of the wall's eyes glaring back at you in intensity that civilized your mind, piqued your interests, your breath steadied, and you counted the full twelve beats that were spaced crudely. Your tilt backwards into the descent of the music, away you would go, the soft colouring of the floor as you let yourself fall onto the smooth wood with a dull thud. Your hand would stay, splayed out under you, while the other touched the floor out in front of you, the elbow coming just a fraction off of the floor itself. One leg bent under, the other settled behind. One, two, three, four-- 

You forced yourself up again-- no time to rest--, with the same soft edge and gentle touch, yet it impeded enough into a roughness that could help you up. You only stayed on the tips of your toes for a moment, before you glided back down, onto the balls of Your feet. The next breather was brief, and the music slowed gently to a very quiet pulse. Your resolve stayed sharp, however, your eyes opened in determination. The move you always had trouble with, a leap and a turn, was what you were faced with. You could do this, you could do this. You stepped backwards, eyes on the prize, the invisible goal and point counter achieving your attention, and you took one leaping step before you were there, turning to the right, and landing on your feet with another gentle thud. You forced yourself to stumble, because you knew that that was how the dance was supposed to go, and you made yourself fall to your knees, hands caressing the air as they glided up above your head, your chin tilted back, and as did your body. 

On your back now, with your knees bent and calves under you, you turned onto your right, and pressed your left palm against the soft wood, your right hand splayed against the floor, your head resting on the floor, and your legs draped carefully in the position needed. This concluded the choreography for the piece, and with a few extra seconds for the music to die down, you hoisted yourself up and fixed your hair. No amount of hairspray could keep it intact when you danced.

With a quick glance into a mirror that draped itself upon the wall, you gave a small sigh and looked at yourself in it. The original act of a single glance had been put to the test for simply the effect of seeing if your hair was right again, or not. You had deemed it fine with one look, a passing stare, but something else caught your eye. The bright orange hue of your eyes was something you had learned to accept, considering you weren't allowed to wear those sharp sunglasses out and about in the dancing world; to fall with those on would call for danger, a hazard waiting in the shadows for its moment to stand up and strike. But the look of yourself, in the mirror, was always something you failed to feel anything other than intrigued by. In all of the ten years you had been dancing, you never thought you yourself would be able to move like those dancers you would watch on countless movies and shows. The grace had seemed impossible for you, as a young child sitting in front of the telly, enamored by it all. 

But this, still, was not at all what had managed to catch your eye. Instead, the familiar form of a figure in the background, sitting and watching in what you could only determine to be intrigue, was what had managed to catch the glance of a passing dancer. At first, the face didn't seem familiar; until you saw those glasses that covered the other's eyes. Then it was all just too obvious. You turned, with a look of indifference on your face, and studied Dave, trying to figure out when he had gotten here, and how he had managed to sneak in so quietly. Your brows furrowed, though you weren't angry. You were just surprised. 

"When'd you get here?" You asked, breathing in a gentle pant. Not enough to be considered out of breath, but enough for it to be obvious that you had been doing a workout of some kind-- Which, of course, you had been. Though dance came easy for you now, after ten years of strict practice and classes, you could never wish for a time where you were not panting from the extraneous workout. If you were to have a moment where you were not breathing in a heavier manner, you would know, simply, that you had been dancing wrong. Perhaps not long enough, perhaps not difficult enough. No matter the reason, it would be a clear indicator.

"Twenty minutes ago. I don't know. Long enough to work out your dance routine, that is," Dave spoke, flicking a clump of dirt off of his shoe. Simple tennis shoes, the left one of which held a hole near the back of the inner side, were what Dave wore. He only had one pair of shoes, considering he never went out much for special occasions for him to need much more than one. The amount of physical work he did could be explained in a simple word; none. He's not active, not exactly anyway, and the school that you both went to doesn't focus on physical activity at all. Listening to a lecture was as much of a workout as the school offered, and that's where the physical wellness credit comes from. "Well, sort of. I saw you perform like eight of them. Either that, or you're just dancing and prancing around like some blind deer hopped up on the same drugs those spiders were for the hell of it. Remember that? Those damned spiders, I swear."

He can talk up a storm, Dave can, but even with the many words having left his mouth at tops speed already, you know he's holding back. He is a Strider, after all; same as you are. The two of you share the last name, and share the same blood. The same blonde hair, odd coloured eyes, tanned skin with a hardly noticeable spotting of freckles across each of your noses. The only thing different about you is the fact that your eyes aren't exactly the same shade as each other's. Dave's harbored a red, which has gotten darker and more concentrated over time, whilst you seemed to be carefully nursing a brightening tangerine.

"I still don't really understand where the hell you learned to bumble about like a busy buzzing bumble bee. Sure, those shrubs you surround yourself with need flowers a plenty, but eighty million moves later, and you still aren't quite engrossed in enough of a workout to fertilize all those monstrous lilies. Or roses, never knew which you liked better, considering you're literally the most difficult person in the world to read. I swear sometimes you're a sociopath, y'know, people who don't feel emotions like others do. Mystery Diagnosis would have a fun time with you, I bet, a nutshell too hard to crack because you're like an ant, with an exoskeleton. Too bad you feel pain, otherwise you'd get a crackin' from everyone without your ninja skills-"

"Dave, you're not making sense," you scoffed through, a playful thing though it was. Interruption was the only way to make Dave shut up, at this point, considering his weakened analogies and allegories. They had become simplistic, a sign that Dave was either nervous or frightened in some way, and was simply trying to calm down by listening to himself talk. You understood this, considering the two of you are twins. Your intelligence about one another had grown drastically in your first three years of life, when both Bro and David had the most trouble getting you both to talk to anyone other than each other (well, Dave was always a chatterbox to anyone who would listen. It was mostly you who had needed the social push). "C'mere." 

You held out your hand, palm upwards and facing the dull and popcorn tiled ceiling. It wasn't actually a popcorn ceiling, of course, it was simply a graphic texture that made itself seem as though it might be a popcorn ceiling. The visuals from an artistic master, if anything. 

"Besides," you muttered, watching as Dave took off his shitty tennis shoes and hoisted himself up off of the floor. It takes him eight steps before he's able to take your left hand in his right, a simple resting touch that settled itself neatly into a nestled corner. Dave smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, the girl's shampoo and body wash he used from the beauty store down the street from the apartment complex you live in an easy scent to catch. "I know you can dance, too."

The smile playing itself upon Dave's face makes your own lips curl in a satisfied expression. Enclosing your fingers together with Dave's, you tug your brother backwards to the center of the theatre room. His back was to the mirror, and even though it's obvious in the mirror that you are roughly three inches shorter than Dave, you feel as though you are both the same height. Egos and sentiments aside, orange eyes meet referenced movie shades in the light of a dim and darkening area. The sweat was gone, though the scent still lingered under your nose, and soon, there would be more.

With a gentle count off, you heard the distant reminiscent sound of the music you had been needing to practice the pas de deux for, for a few weeks. With your partner initially out sick, you had never gotten the chance to. You stepped back, rolling your shoulders and letting go of Dave's hand with the nearly silent sound of skin sliding against skin. A smirk transforms into a passionate look, a meaningful expression looming dangerously close to your eyes and mouth, hanging like a mobile from the ceiling to entertain a generation anew. 

A hitch in the right shoulder and your head turns meaningfully to the accompanying side. The right hand flits out in a gentle motion, flicking the air with a relaxed palm and simplistic wrist. Your left goes out before you, towards Dave, with a bow just hardly on the edge of your spine, before you stand back up and takes a circular step out, around, and back in. Dave knows this routine, you are heavily sure of that. He's seen this countless times, remixed, replayed, relaxed, with the shoulders of a boy-- a stranger in the eyes of the two of you-- in the background rather than your brother. This being said, Dave should be able to fill the act of being your accomplice, being your dance partner. Choreography was nothing new to Dave, but the filming was definitely more his intrigue.

Air, as you notice, can never be too difficult to breathe, even with how thick the smell of sweat may be, or how palpable the passion might seem. Dave has obviously taken the hint, stepping to the right and letting his hands rest upon your waist as if ready to lift you. Rather than support, though, you gain a separate ability of give, something that contrasts with the sound of the music in your mind nicely.

You bend to the side, your right hand clasping onto his right shoulder, and you can feel his chest come into contact with the higher part of your back. Your left hand, however motionless it might become, stations itself meaningfully on his right hand, which rests on your right side. The support of his hands is something pushing you to the edge of your abilities, and you know that he's a much better lead than you'll probably ever be. Eventually, his grip loosens and you find yourself able to spin to the right, now facing him as you circle around and trail your hands up his arm, across his shoulders and neck, to rest on both of his shoulders in respective order.

You witness his arms moving, his right to rest by his side, his left trailing in a diagonal line up his chest, from his left hip to his right shoulder, until his left arm is completely outstretched to the right side. His fingers grip around nothing, and he jerks the arm back as if tugging a rope, his head turning towards the left as he does. You see the way his hair moves with the simple movements, and are instantly enamored. As always, his technique is easily more composed with less practice than you could ever hope to achieve.  
Hands trail from his shoulders, to the sides of his neck, feeling his pulse radiate through the sides of it, into your palms and your finger tips. It has sped up, his heart, and even though it isn't thumping hard against his chest yet, you know it will be soon. He spins to the right, his right hand capturing your left shoulder, and firmly applying pressure. You instinctively give under it, and lean to the right. Then the firm pressure releases, and it's like you're a rubber band, snapping back into place, standing straight and tall, with a choreographed glare.

Dave's own smirk is choreographed, but it holds something deeper, darker, and more passionate than you think you'll ever come to fully understand.

Dave turns away, his smirk slowly shifting downwards as you attentively force a sharp spin towards him. His right arm lags behind him, and your left hand grabs it firmly, tugging gently and he's pulled back into a spin which captures you both in pure respite, his arms encasing you, one around your shoulders and the other threatening to hook under your legs. It doesn't, though, and it instead favors to trail up to your side, gripping your ribs in the entirety of his hand.

In one swift move, you stumble backwards, as if to get away, and he stumbles forewords, to follow your simple sway. You push off, jump backwards and he follows suit with a soft leap, with his right foot pointing out and away behind him. The choreography is meant to made the lead look desperate, whilst also being malicious. Dave pulls off the role perfectly, his eyes holding a feigned malice that you understand as a character, but not as a person. The music trails off as you both hold your poses, and you count out twelve beats, before you dash a few steps to the side, and he pretends to fall, though it's smooth, gentle, and slick, held up with his hands on the floor and left leg bent under him.

You lean forewords, and he rolls to the side, on his back. You turn, landing on your own back, next to him. The moves are slow now, the initial rise in the story having come to a damn near complete close, as you both hoist yourselves up in complete and gentle symmetry, right hands on the floor as both of your left hands slide towards each other. With a lean in, you both rest your left hands on each other's right cheek, something simple, cute, and all too romantic of a moment for brothers, of all people, to be sharing to easily. You don't care, though, as it's only choreography. 

Feelings such as these towards your brother don't exist.

With symmetry still there, both you and Dave stand with simple unity, slowly coming to end in a spin that hardly goes half of a circle; one hundred and sixteen degrees, maybe. Hands still on each other's cheeks, your heart stutters as you come face to face with him. A few more steps. Slowly you step away, hands reaching out for one another again, your steps backwards initiating the final count down of the beats to the end, the final crescendo of music well under hidden in the depths of somewhere deep. A cry out wouldn't reach it, the music and story are something that you and Dave are now playing out with simplistic tones and a different beat. The music in your head is never this slow, or this passionate; unless you're with Dave.

You run. Towards him, yes, and quickly, too-- but you know he can handle this landing, he always does the catches better than you could be able to, or your partner would be able to. Simple and sweet, you leap, out towards his arms, and he catches you, your arms looping comfortably around his neck, and his own looping under your thighs so you have an easy purchase on where you need to be. Your heartbeat speeds up as Dave nails the landing, perfect and flawless, and even adds in the complimentary spin that doesn't specifically need to be there.

Absentmindedly, you tighten the grasp of your arms, tensing your muscles so you can't be let go, and he lets you. In fact, Dave even goes so far as to tighten his own grip, and lift you further.

Your faces are closer than they probably ever will be at any other moment, at this point, and you can feel the heat of his breath beating down on you smoothly. Him having you in his arms, means that you're now a few inches higher up than you normally would be. With a swallow, you breathe in and smell the sweet scent of watermelon and mint, a mix that doesn't seem very appetizing at first, but you've grown to enjoy, and even love, the scent of. You don't know where it comes from, considering his toothpaste is the same as your own, which isn't watermelon or mint. In fact, it's strawberry. Maybe he managed to score some bubblegum from John. Your face rides with pink, as you think that maybe John kissed him.

Maybe he kissed John.

Your faces slowly inch closer, though you don't know why. You didn't even initially notice, until you saw that you could see the colour of his eyes hidden behind his generally darkened shades. Dave's eyes are lidded heavily, you notice, same as yours were just a second ago. Fuck. No.

Fuck _yes_.

Impatient, you quickly close the distance between each other. You turn your head, and his lips meet your own in a firm, passionate kiss; something that you instantly want more of. His mouth tastes about the same as his breath smells, which is rather good tasting, something fruity and fresh. Your fingers tangle in his hair, while his own dig into your thighs, his mouth moving against yours minimally, and yet so much. It's brilliant. It's intoxicating. 

He's intoxicating. 

The kiss ends before you want it to, and you both pull away from each other at the same general time.

You tell yourself that you can't do that again, that doing something like that is frowned upon in every state. You can't elope, though incestuous urges are telling you to anyway. It's hormonal, you tell yourself, and it's intoxicating. 

"I don't remember that being in the choreography," Dave says, out of breath. You can feel his heart pounding away in his chest, and you don't blame him. Your own heart feels like it might beat out of your own chest in a matter of seconds. It's a jackhammer, ready and willing to break your ribs in order to get the proper amount of space it needs to chill out right now. But you don't want space. You want Dave.

"That's because it's not," you reply.

This time, he's the one that kisses you.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you definitely love your brother more than you should. Apparently, though, the feeling is mutual.

**Author's Note:**

> My ships are showing  
> they totally didnt kiss  
> is this the first time ive written two characters kissing?
> 
> I might make this into a chaptered story, because I really like this idea. Definitely let me know if you want me to make a second chapter, because I still don't know whether I should. Feedback is always highly appreciated!


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